


Paternitas

by settledownfrohike



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, POV Third Person, Post-Episode: s08e21 Existence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9773825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/settledownfrohike/pseuds/settledownfrohike
Summary: Answer to prompt, "Welcome to Fatherhood" Set between William's birth and Scully's home. I feel pretty certain that there's no way she avoided at least some hospital stay, so it's canon to me that Mulder had at least 3-5 days with his son. Not 48 freaking hours. Oh please, Chris. Linguistics are southern, as am I. Apologies in advance for that as well as any medical inaccuracies. It's been 10 years since my time in the hospital.





	

Paternitas

 

Gordon County Hospital, GA

9:23 pm

I lean against the wall of the break room, trying to center my thoughts and calm my breathing. 15 years as an L&D nurse and cases like that one never cease to shake me up. I need a cigarette. My heart is beating out of my chest and my hands are still shaking. It’s just adrenaline, I know. I haven’t eaten since before I left home and my sugar is in the toilet. {I need food, not a cigarette}, I think as I absent-mindedly rub the patch on my upper arm. {For the kids.} I’m doing this for the kids. 

A debbie cake and a bottled water later, I pad down the hall to check on my patient. She’s out of surgery now, and it went well. God, just one tiny sliver of placenta can wreak so much havoc. So much blood…. I wonder what in the hell happened to bring her in in such a state. A home birth gone wrong, maybe? No. She wasn’t even dressed in a nightgown. I guess it isn’t important now. Her poor husband looked about as frightened as I’d ever seen. I think I heard they arrived by chopper?? Not medevac, though. Important folks, apparently. They looked like they’d both just come from work, truth be told. This patient assessment is going to be interesting. 

When I get to the room the husband (? No ring I see) has exchanged his blood- saturated suit for a set of standard issue ‘dad scrubs’, and is sitting by her bed, studying mom’s face intently. He strokes a lock of hair from her face, leaning in and murmuring something unintelligible. He sits back down in the guest recliner, still holding her hand as he brings it to his lips for the most tender of kisses– once, twice. The gaze on her face is not broken. I wonder if he even blinks.

{He’s cute. Very.} I shake my head at my inappropriate thought and proceed to the bedside with her chart in hand and a load of questions to ask. But I really wish I could leave them alone. 

Flipping back through my notes at the nurse’s station I kick off my crocs and hear my toes crack. I’m only 40.. just, in fact-- but tonight I’m feeling everyone of those years. FBI….Huh. And his name is Fox? Suits him… {Jesus, Susan. Get a grip.} Not married, but this one’s clearly taken, old girl. What’s gotten into you? I need sleep, that’s it. I’m getting punch drunk already. This usually doesn’t happen til the end of my shift…

*Clearly* taken.

He never let go of her hand throughout any of the inquiries. He stroked her thumb continually with his, startling and glancing her way from time to time as if hoping she’d stir, maybe thinking she had. I’ve seen my share of jittery new dads– but this one seems, I don’t know, for lack of a better word….. spooked. Lost. Thrust into a foreign universe and flailing. It’s clear who is his anchor here.

When I asked if he was the father (he’s listed as such on the chart, but I’m required to ask for my notes) his eyes went wide and expressionless, and he looked at her again, as if waiting for an answer. “Yes... yes” , he repeated, nodding, testing the words and again looking at her. (Looking for permission?) I wrapped up my initial assessment, vitals strong (-ish, her BP could come up a bit), capillary refill: good. Bowel sounds present. No distension. No hint of fever or infection. All good signs. She could be out as early as a couple of days. Dad sits quietly close by, giving me space to work but not much more than that. His knee bounces with anxiety.

I finish quietly, wash and unfasten from my clipboard the standard pamphlets and literature: birth certificate form, social security, “Getting to Know Your Baby”, “Welcome to Fatherhood”, “Mommy and Me: An Introduction to Breast Feeding”. I hand them over with a small smile and he gives them a cursory glance before placing them on the bedside table. He scoots the chair back close to her side and again strokes the same wayward lock of hair from her closed eyelids, and again, kisses her hand. The tender expression of adoration convoluted with worry is so profound and unabashed that I find myself staring, my face growing hot, but I thankfully recover quickly and begin to go over her condition, letting him know what to expect when she wakes… she’s a fall risk…she’ll need help to the restroom….call a nurse if you need one…he nods, nods. I hope that at least some information will give him his bearings, a comfort perhaps, but I think maybe it has no effect at all. He hears me but I get the sense he’s just waiting on her. His eyes plead with her to wake, to tell him what to do. Apparently she’s an M.D. (?! This case gets stranger and stranger…), so she should pretty well know her way around things, at least until they bring the baby in. Parenthood is tricky. No one really ever knows it all, no one's ever really ready. I think back to the birth of my first daughter. The elation, the fear, the absolutely necessity to have her at my side immediately and at all times.

He hasn’t yet asked to see his son.

Once they wheeled her in for the d&c he took off like a shot to the nursery, shouting questions of where and why over the child with fierce protectiveness but I sense it was more for her knowledge than his need. He was a sentinel, utterly at her service, unconscious as she was, but he was also her proxy in every sense of the word.

He hasn’t been back there since, though.

Baby from what I hear is fine; APGAR was a 9, nuero: solid. Good thing, too. Had his condition deteriorated we would have had to transport him to a bigger facility with a NICU. Somehow I sense that separating these 3 would prove problematic. Thankfully the nurses have been able to tending to the boy here with no trouble. Her milk is starting to come in though, and if she doesn’t wake soon I’ll need to express some for her. Engorgement is no fun at all. I need to make a note to remind myself. 

2:30 am

Time for vitals again. They’ve wheeled the baby in I see. And now there’s a man outside their room. A broad guy, balding and with glasses, looking stern but exhausted as well. I’m assuming a friend but he looks and acts like a bodyguard. He gives me a polite nod, but a suspicious once over as I enter the room. Dad is still at his station. Wide-awake. He should sleep, if he knows what’s good for him. Real life is about to hit. Newborn induced sleep deprivation is entirely another animal.

But, God, the way he looks at her. Utterly besotted. The intensity of his love for her is all around him- a thrumming, golden aura, even as his body has begun to sway lightly in exhaustion.

I hate to disturb them but her BP is still a bit low for my liking. We’ll need to continue pushing fluids. 

"Hi there. Me again,” I smile apologetically. “Baby boy has joined y’all, I see?“ 

"Yea, I uh, I wanted him to be here when she woke up." 

I don’t comment that she may very well be out for the next 12 hours or so.

"Well, the nurses fed him I’m sure, so you should have a few peaceful hours. They mostly just sleep and eat at this stage. And poop.” I chuckle, but the joke falls flat. 

I need to make sure the baby’s nurse comes back for a diaper check. This guy isn’t ready. I note the various monitors and change her bag. 

"Would you like to hold him?“ That gets him to look right at me, with an unidentifiable expression. He looks over at the bassinet, back to me and his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s blinking furiously. Bless. Indecision and panic are clear as day in his eyes. But something else, too. He looks…guilty. It’s the strangest thing. I can sense that he wants to hold the baby but feels unworthy, of all things.

He lowers his chin to his chest, pauses and swallows. "Um…no… I… I don’t want to wake him." All of my maternal inclinations are screaming at me to hug this poor boy, who isn’t a boy at all. I tamp down the urge, and decide instead to turn my attention to the baby.

I lean over the to take a glance. They’ve got the room fairly warm so he’s loosely swaddled in addition to a hospital issued t-shirt and diaper. His arms curled above his head, snoozing away. He smells of clean laundry and lavender baby shampoo. What a cutie. Just a dusting of strawberry blonde hair, long lashes of the same shade. He’s got his daddy’s chin. I watch his lips and cheeks mimicking the age-old suckling reflex. Oh heavens. I do miss this. "You won’t, don’t worry. Babies love to be held. He’d might even sleep sounder that way.”

Again he swallows. I won’t push. 

"Y’all have a name picked out?“ I want to make friendly conversation, because I feel like this guy could use a friend, but mostly I want to leave. I feel awkward and oddly intrusive. Something about his room feels holy and sacred in a way I haven’t encountered before. And I’m trespassing.

He blinks. As if the idea just occurred to him. "Um, no. No not yet.”

"Well, never mind that. No hurry. He’s just precious,” I hug my clipboard to my chest and flash a nurturing southern grin, “Congratulations.“ Lord what a drawl. My accent really does get worse at night, especially deep into a shift. But I do mean that, wholeheartedly. Oh, get ready I think. This love is like no other. 

His eyes flit over to the baby, who’s begun to stir and whimper and then glances up at me, alarmed. I walk over and place my hand on the tiny human’s rapidly rising and falling belly, and place a firm but gentle pressure there. I lightly jiggle and ‘shhhh…’ softly. He settles instantly and resumes his slumber.

I feel dad’s eyes on me. Yes, he loves this baby. Suddenly the man’s paternal instincts are almost palpable. And yet he holds back. I smile over at him again, reassuringly. “See? Nothing to it, “ with a wink. No need for any hardcore parenting truths right now.

As I gather my things and wish him a good night, tell him I’ll be back in a couple of hours to recheck her vitals but I’ll try not to wake them, in case he wants to rest his eyes for a while. Something tells me he won’t.

He thanks me routinely and I turn to walk out. At the threshold of the door I hear the plastic of the chair crack and I turn around, wondering if he needs anything. His attention isn’t on me, but the baby, walking over to the clear bassinet and peering over. He hasn’t touched him yet, only gazes down at the newborn with earnest curiosity that quickly blooms into boundless wonder, and finally, an expression of such heartbreaking devotion that my throat constricts and my eyes begin to burn. I freeze. He gently mimics, exactly, his movements from earlier. He strokes the baby’s face, no wayward lock to mislay but along side his cherubic cheek just the same. Then places a finger in the baby’s palm, which instinctually grips his father’s outstretched digit. He leans close, so carefully close, and places an impossibly soft kiss on the tiny hand, lips trembling.

“Hi.” He mouths.

His face begins to crumple slightly, and he gathers his entire bottom lip in his teeth, desperately trying to contain what’s so obviously a flood of emotion.

Feeling like an interloper, I make my exit as quietly as I can, and scurry down the hallway.

The whys and how’s of their appearance at this lonely small town facility are inconsequential, really. They are just parents now. New parents. With vast, phenomenal, uncharted waters lying ahead of them. And yet, something tells me they are well equipped for such territory. Call it experience, call it optimism, call it hope, call it what you will.

{Good luck you two}, I think, walking toward my station, yearning for my shift to end so as to return to my own two sleeping babies at home. 

Fin


End file.
